This is the first chapter from a sexy new story called Alpha Male Black Thugs, which is about a black ATF agent undercover and downlow at a moving company that’s also a front for a local arms trafficker. You won’t believe how hot and hard this story gets!
Walter didn’t need to pretend to be bedraggled. He had been living rough for three weeks to be sure he looked the part. Now he had finally gotten through the first — and, he suspected, most difficult — part of his mission. Once he was accepted by the Nine Tats, he’d be able to collect the evidence he needed and then get out.
A part of Walter was frightened, of course. A lot of things could still go wrong, but he had been working undercover for the ATF for years. This wasn’t the first time he got himself insinuated into the fabric of a street gang, knowing that even the tiniest slip-up would lead to his downfall.
“So this is it, nigga,” said Fajah. Fajah was not the person Walter was trying to catch. That was a man named Reginald Clark, but Walter wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t met Clark yet. If Clark were that easy to catch, he would have been caught already. He was smart, that was for sure. Fajah frowned at Walter. “Ain’t much, I know. Just a safehouse.”
It was just an ordinary-looking house in Atlanta. It was in the ghetto, but one of the nicer parts of a ghetto, so it wasn’t really a terrible neighborhood. The house itself was ramshackle and well-worn, with stained floors, chipped paint and the smell of bachelor living. It was obvious some people lived here, which wasn’t what Walter expected.
“Who lives here?” he asked. The last time he had gotten an invite to a gang’s safehouse, it was just a tiny efficiency apartment; he slept on the floor until he got the evidence he was looking for. That’s what a “safehouse” usually was. In contrast, this was an entire home with several people already living here.
“Uh, a couple niggas,” Fajah said. “Me too.” He led Walter to one of the bedrooms. “This is my room. Yours too, now. You got the air mattress there on the floor.”
Walter sniffled. He tried not to sound upset. As far as Fajah was concerned, Walter had run away from a prison camp in Arizona. It wouldn’t do to seem prissy. But in actuality, Walter was too old to be sleeping on an air mattress; his back was going to hurt. He sighed and sat down. He didn’t have any things — since he was pretending to be a fugitive — so as soon as he sat down, he was “moved in”.
“You gonna start work tomorrow,” Fajah said. He turned around and stripped off his shirt, revealing a powerful brown chest. He wore a stained white wifebeater. He carefully folded up the t-shirt he had been wearing, and placed it on a stack of clothes, next to a hernia belt.
“Oh. Work? Whatchoo need?” Walter said. He was excited. He hadn’t thought they’d give him anything to do right away, but if they did, he might be able to catch Clark immediately. Walter ran his tongue under his lip and gave Fajah a knowing nod to suggest that Walter could be trusted with anything. “I can do whatever, nigga. I keep my mouth shut.”
“Nothin’ like that,” Fajah said. He opened his mouth to explain further, but then the door opened downstairs. The sound of men trampling into the house filled the room. Fajah motioned for Walter to come with him. “I’ll introduce you to the other guys.”
Walter sighed. He knew pushing the issue would make him look suspicious. They almost certainly wouldn’t give him a serious job to do on his first day; they didn’t yet have any good reason to trust him. He would have to spend some time insinuating himself in the fabric of the Nine Tats, so they’d feel comfortable enough to ask him to do something illegal.
As Walter followed Fajah downstairs, the sound of one man in particular filled the air. Nah, nigga, you shut the fuck up. I said to take the trash out last night, now you got a goddamn pile of rotting garbage right over there, you fuckin’ numbskull. If you forget next week, I’m gonna make you sleep out in the garage right next to the trashcan, so you’ll remember.
That had to be Reginald Clark. Walter had never heard the man’s voice, but that was clearly the sound of the man in charge. When Walter got downstairs, he saw a dozen or so black men, wearing sleeveless t-shirts and sagging jeans, carrying with them hernia belts and empty water bottles. Walter felt intimidated — he was small compared to any one of these men, all of whom glanced at him but didn’t say anything.
“Yo, Reggie, here’s that nigga,” Fajah said.
Clark was the only person here not dressed as a mover — Walter saw a moving truck outside, and gathered now that this “safehouse” also housed the workers at a moving company that he assumed Clark must own. Clark wore a plain white button-down t-shirt and black slacks; the clothes were nice, but smudged with dirt. His thick body swayed as he strode to Walter to shake his hand.
“What was that, Fajah?”
Fajah blushed and bit his lip. He sighed. “Mr. Clark, this is Walter Harson. He’s your newest employee I was telling you about.”
Mr. Clark nodded. He eyed Walter suspiciously. “Walter. You need this job, huh? Fajah said you was desperate.”
Walter nodded. “Yessuh,” he said. “I been on the run-“
“Yo!” Mr. Clark barked. Everyone fell silent. “What was that? I know I ain’t hear some nigga say he a fugitive in my house.”
Fajah cleared his throat. “He means he go joggin’, Mr. Clark. He ‘on the run’,” Fajah said.
Mr. Clark nodded. “That makes sense. Jogging is good. It’s healthy,” he said. He grabbed Walter’s biceps through his clothes. He frowned as his hands roamed up and down Walter’s arms and chest. “He ain’t big. You ain’t tell me he was little, Fajah.”
“I’m not that little,” Walter said. He had never been a small man, but he was obviously not built like a mover either.
“He may be little, but he loyal,” Fajah said.
“You prove that?” Mr. Clark asked.
A silence filled the room. Fajah murmured a no, and some of the other men exchanged knowing glances. Someone giggled then stifled a laugh.
Fajah coughed. “Not yet, nigga… Mr. Clark, I mean.”
Mr. Clark crossed his arms over his chest. He frowned and raised his eyebrows.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty,” Walter said. He tried to thread that line between willing and forced — he did want to do this; he wanted to get assigned a crime, but he wanted to look like he didn’t really want to, that he’d be willing to do it only out of a sense of devotion to the cause. “I can hustle. I do what I gotta do, Mr. Clark. You want me out on the street, I be out there, and I come correct. I got-“
“Nah,” Mr. Clark said. “That ain’t how you gonna prove yo’ loyalty.” He didn’t take his eyes off Fajah, who lightly grabbed Walter’s arm and motioned towards the stairs. Walter followed him upstairs, heart pounding as he heard one of the other men make porno-like music. (Baddow-chicka-bow-wow) They all laughed. Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “I don’t allow hustlers in this house, nigga. If you live here, you gotta work for me. I don’t hire thugs. I hire difficult men, and I gives ‘em a job, a place to live, health insurance. That’s what I do, nigga. If you bring crime into this house, I will punish you. My punishment will end with calling the police, so you gonna end up behind bars, but you’ll experience somethin’ even worse first.” Someone oohed and aahed until someone else shut them up. Mr. Clark didn’t break eye contact with Walter, who shrugged nonchalantly, stopping on the stairs to hear what he said..
“Fine, nig… Mr. Clark,” Walter said. “I’s tryin’-a put my life back together. You want me to be a law-abidin’ kinda nigga, that’s the kinda nigga I gonna be.”
“Good,” Mr. Clark said, “Mah nigga.”
Walter followed Fajah back up to the bedroom. He got the impression from Fajah’s reluctant slowness that whatever he was going to be assigned, Fajah didn’t want to do it. Since Mr. Clark hadn’t acknowledged any knowledge of a crime, not even Walter’s status as a fugitive, he hadn’t done anything illegal yet. Walter would just have to go along with it for now, until he could get Mr. Clark to do something incriminating. That wasn’t too surprising — it took him almost a year to get the boss to incriminate himself on his last operation.
When he shut the door to the bedroom, Fajah bit his lip. “So… you ain’t gotta do this. I’ll tell Reggie you did it anyway.” His strapping chest muscles were tight, flexed, awkwardly nervous. His body heat emanated through his thin wifebeater, and Walter could feel his warmth in the tiny bedroom.
He swallowed nervously. “What is it, nigga? I’m tough. You want me to rob someone or somethin’? Huh? I been a hustler fo’ long enough-“
“No, no, nothing like that. Nothing illegal, not yet. You been locked up, right?”
“You fuck around wit’ a bitch?”
Walter shrugged. “Yeah. I gots a blowjob or two. Ain’t really that kind of nigga though.” He had spent hours coming up with a backstory, and had a detailed story ready for every time he had sex in prison. But he knew a fugitive thug like him wouldn’t be forthcoming with the details, so he kept things vague for now.
Fajah nodded. “Me neither. You ever get punked?” He paused. “No judgment, nigga. I know it happens to the best of us.“
Walter shook his head. “No way, nigga.”
“Well, that’s what Reggie wants you to do. But we ain’t gotta do it, we just gotta pretend we did. You have to tell Reggie you did it though,” Fajah said. “He wants you to suck my dick to prove you loyal, prove you really need this job. This house is only open to niggas who really need it.”
Walter’s heart nearly jumped up in his throat. He had been so focused on agreeing to do whatever it took that he already nodded his head before it really sank in. Could he truly go through with this?
“You do it?” Fajah asked with a wry smile, as though he had been expecting Walter to say no. “I mean… if you want to…”
“I do what I gotta do to prove I’m loyal. No undercover would suck some nigga off, right?” Walter said with a smile. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He tried to come up with a reason not to go through with it, but after having already said yes, claiming he had done it behind bars and outright offering to do something illegal instead, he could hardly claim this was beyond the pale. He was a fugitive on the run, as far as Fajah was concerned, he had to keep that up.
So he sunk to his knees. He heard scandalized laughter downstairs, and he had a feeling someone was calling out to him, teasing him, making jokes about what they all knew was happening. Someone — possibly Mr. Clark himself — shushed the others.
“Ignore them, nigga,” Fajah said. “They all done the same. They just ain’t wanna admit it.” He unzipped the fly of his sagging jeans, and pulled out his cell phone to watch some straight porn.
Once the tinny sound of moaning women filled the room, Walter felt nauseous. Fajah had a long cock, dangling out from the fly of his jeans. Walter took a deep breath, thinking that would help, only to get a nostrilful of stank cocksweat. He gagged, but forced himself to get started.
Salty flesh invaded his mouth. It was loose and limpid, clammy, yet warm, and when it jerked towards erection it felt like an alien creature stirring to life inside him.
There was a vein on the underside of the shaft. For some reason, Walter found it appealing, and he ran his tongue up and down it. That made Fajah shudder and his dick stiffened up even more.
“Yeah, you give some gud respec’, boy, Reggie gonna like hearing ‘bout this,” Fajah said, his tone turning rough and gangsta. His dick was rock-hard now, pulsating in Walter’s mouth. He reached into his jeans and let his low-hanging balls come out the fly as well. That reawakened the sweaty-balls scent that overwhelmed Walter’s senses. “Ugh, yeah, fuck yeah…”
Though Walter already knew Mr. Clark was behind this, the thought of Fajah describing the blowjob to him made Walter even more embarrassed — would he really describe it? Or just say that it had happened? He could picture Mr. Clark’s mustache shaking as he nodded his head in satisfaction.
Fajah began grinding his hips onto Walter’s face. He groaned as Walter’s throat clenched around his cockshaft, but Fajah inexorably shoved his meat deeper and deeper.
“Open up, nigga,” Fajah said a couple times, murmuring, sounding a little embarrassed about how good this felt. He threw his head back and groaned. “Lick that meat, yeah… Lick it up, nigga…”
When the first drops of powerfully acrid precum hit his tongue, Walter was surprised by how appealing the taste really was. The anticipation had been worse than the actuality of it. He could almost enjoy this, if it weren’t for the humiliation.
“Okay, nigga, here it comes,” Fajah said, “You do gotta swallow. That’s Reggie’s rule. He say it’s disrespec’ful if’n you don’t.”
Walter’s stomach churned at the thought. Even though the precum hadn’t turned out to be that bad, he wasn’t sure he could handle anything more than that. By that time, however, Fajah had wrapped his hands around the back of Walter’s head. He pistoned his hips back and forth, uncaring of how much Walter choked and spat up around his cockshaft.
The first drops of cum hit his tongue. The taste was sweet and sour, not exactly pleasant but Walter found it much less revolting than he would have guessed. The texture was snotty and thick, and it coated Walter’s throat.
“Oh fuck yeah, nigga, fuck!” Fajah said. He took a deep breath and chuckled. He held onto the back of Walter’s head until Walter’s whole body bucked, and Walter finally looked up at him. Despite the humiliation, they made eye contact as Fajah’s body roiled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His cock throbbed in Walter’s mouth. Fajah slammed a fist on the wall, roared loudly and then chuckled as the men downstairs cheered. Walter blushed.
Then his dick fell limp. Fajah was in no hurry to pull out, letting his softening cock rest there even as Walter spasmed and spat around it. At last he pulled out, and Walter choked as that slimy cockshaft plopped out of his mouth.
“Good job, nigga,” Fajah said, smiling down at Walter’s gasping face, “I’ll tell Mr. Clark you proved yo’self good.”